The first thing I will say in this blog is that I am not in any way superstitious. I don’t have a particular order for putting on my socks and I don’t fret about black cats crossing my path. There is no one, let alone some kind of supernatural dictator, arranging my life around my habits and foibles, so why have I not shaved since before England’s group stage games in Euro 2020?
It’s absolutely ridiculous, I know, but somehow I have got it into my head that actually there is something in it. If I shave off this dreadful, shaggy, apology of a brown and white beard before Wednesday, Denmark will knock us out of the tournament. Then, I will probably conclude that there is something in this superstition malarkey anyway.
The trouble with a half beard is not just that it looks terrible, it feels pretty grim. When kissing me the other day – on the cheek, I hasten to add – my partner declared I was ‘prickly’, or at least I think that’s what she said. To me, it’s an itchy tangle of unkempt hair that makes me look even scruffier than I usually am (which takes some doing).
But now I am approaching D-Day. I either go the full hog and grow a Michael Sheen-type effort or I return to stubble. And my instinct is firmly with the latter.
I won’t announce my decision until the game is out of the way because it will probably only add to your stress levels but if there really is a Beard God I hope he is looking the other way.
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